Toast

I think it’s well past time to put this blog to bed.

Good night, good luck and we’ll be seeing you.

My hero

Fax machine mafia

The assignment: Same as previous, imitate another writer. This time it’s Grace Paley.

* * * * * *

FAX MACHINE MAFIA

I stared down at the fax machine, my hands braced on either side of it. Check paper size, its digital display read. I called Jimmy over and asked him what that meant. Since when do fax machines take different sizes of paper?

He came over and looked at the display. That’s weird, he said. There wasn’t even a spot for different sizes to go in.

I pushed the cancel button, but nothing happened. The red alert light kept flashing. He pressed some buttons. Nothing. Turn the power off and on, he suggested.

I looked at the display. There were still faxes waiting to come through. We’ll lose everything in memory, I said. What happens if the story of the century is waiting to arrive?

You’re kidding, he said. All we ever get on that thing are discount travel ads and useless press releases from random government committees.

True, I agreed. I searched around back for the power button and Jimmy told me about the last time they had a problem with the fax.

We couldn’t figure out how to fix it, he said, so we arranged for it to have a little accident. Made it bad enough that they had to give us a new one. A lot of good that did, now that this one’s acting up.

It made me think of the mafia, but an office equipment mafia who chucked computer monitors out the window if they misbehaved. People who flushed dry pens down the toilet. Who stole printer paper from the other departments, only to feign innocence – or better yet, blamed others – when confronted with the disappearance.

I couldn’t find the power button so I pulled the plug instead. All of its lights went out and came back on as I plugged it back in. Right away, the faxes in memory started to arrive.

See, he said, the story of the century may still come. And we didn’t have to stage another fax machine death.

He walked away and I looked down just as a piece of paper announcing the Cheapest Caribbean Vacation Package came spitting out onto the floor.

Watching this hurts my knees

This video makes me feel like a very stiff, out of shape old woman. It’s pretty cool nonetheless. Watch it on YouTube and rate it. My brother is one of the crazies featured and also the one who edited it together. Our old pond and wooden swing even makes a cameo…

There’s even a shorter version if you’d care to see.

Pedal to the metal

The assignment: Imitate the style of one of the writers we’ve studied this week. I’ve chosen Junot Diaz who wrote The Sun, the Moon, the Stars in the New Yorker. See instructor comments below.

* * * * * *

PEDAL TO THE METAL

I’m not a bad driver. It’s all the other jerks on the road who need to go back to Driver’s Ed. You know how it is. They floor it, speed by me at the first chance, hot-dogging it on the highways after I’ve been driving 20 minutes with their nose up my ass. Twenty minutes I spend debating slamming the brakes. Show them what happens when they ride that close. But I chicken out, because I’m a good driver. Getting rear-ended on purpose ain’t worth it. They pass, pedal to the metal and I figure they’ll get what’s coming to them. I pray to the holy mother of Jesus that some cop will pop out from behind a billboard sign to nab the bastards. How sweet that would be. I’d laugh my best evil laugh and cruise on by. They’d get written up. They’d be sorry. Maybe they’d learn a lesson. But the cop is never there.

One time, I was driving on this crazy twisted road in the middle of winter. Full of hills and dips. The kind of road guys on motorcycles love to ride in the summer. The Hopper, Fonda and Vin Diesel wannabes on their Harleys and crotch rockets. On a normal day it’s not bad driving, if you’ve got the patience to deal with pokey drivers cause it’s so up and down that there ain’t a safe place to pass for miles. Even when you get grandma and gramps out for their Sunday drive, paying more attention to the scenery and shit than to keeping their ’87 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme on the road. You’ve got to wait.

But of course there’s those jerks who would rather put everyone’s lives in danger, crossing a solid line on the crest of a hill, than have any more of their precious time wasted behind some slow-ass driver. It’s like they turn to their buddies and say, “Hey, you feel like dyin’ today?” And they all have a howl about it, some kind of stupid kid rush, flying over that hill not knowing if they’re about to have their front end smashed in, not caring about the other lives they may ruin, just cause they can’t sit and wait for another five minutes. It always pisses me off, cause I know I’ll catch up to them at the next light. They’d be speeding and passing, and I’d be driving like a good driver should and we’ll all get to the same place at the same time. It’s then I really want to yell out my window, “What’s the fucking point!”

* * *

Instructor’s comments: So on- such a success, this imitation! My favourite lines: hot-dogging it on the highways after I’ve been driving 20 minutes with their nose up my ass; The kind of road guys on motorcycles love to ride in the summer. The Hopper, Fonda and Vin Diesel wannabes on their Harleys and crotch rockets. I also loved the variation of the sentences: long, longer (almost tipping into breathlessness) and then staccato: short. The only thing I didn’t buy is “ain’t”, but I can’t figure out why.

Winter’s dawn

The assignment: Write about a place you’ve worked without actually saying what/where it was.

* * * * * *

WINTER’S DAWN

My boots cracked the frozen straw with each step as the weathered mahogany door creaked shut behind me. Moonlight filtered through cracks in the warped beams, catching the spirals of warm breath as they floated upwards from each stall. The smell of earth and grain enveloped me in a dry, dusty embrace as I walked forward through the shafts of dim light, and reached up to the cobweb-covered radio, flipping the power button clumsily with the padded thumb of my work glove. Several indignant grunts rumbled from the shadows of the stalls as Sixteen Candles crooned softly from the mossy speaker.

Quick footsteps skirted across the loft above, alerted to my presence. I pulled a short chain and a lone light bulb snapped on, flooding the place just as Whiskey came bounding down the crooked steps, blinking in adjustment to the brightness and crying his welcome and demand for breakfast.

He snaked his way through my legs as I approached the first bucket – its black edges gnawed and coated in grime. Unhitching it from its handle on the stall door, the bucket tilted and cracked the thin layer of ice that had frozen over, sending water bubbling through. Something rolled and caught my eye as I carried the bucket to the door and I suppressed a rising sense of repulsion when I realized what it was.

I pushed open the heavy door and walked into the frigid morning air. With a great heave, I sent the dirty water soaring across the snow and along with it went the stiff body of a rat that had succumbed that night to a cold, watery grave.

* * *

Instructor’s comments: Such good physical detail. You’re in a barn at dawn, a small barn, nothing industrial, a family enterprise. The padded thumb of the work gloves, the mossy radio, the spirals of warm breath (!!). The bubbles beneath the frozen water in the bucket were vivid and visceral. This was clean prose (good job) and extremely visual. There was only one place where I wondered if you could go further, “The smell of earth and grain enveloped me”- I’d like to smell them, too. Are they comparable in metaphor or simile?

Thought du jour

I was asked today what I did over the weekend. I couldn’t come up with much, but for the first time in a long time, I was thrilled with what little I did accomplish. Namely, I spent an incredible amount of time each day at the gym with my fitness fanatic brother and to our delight we found the place practically empty on each occasion. How nice it was to spread out, work at my own speed without feeling claustrophobic or smothered by sweaty, body-odor-challenged members who always seem to pick the machines right next to me, even if five of the same are available elsewhere.

And after several grueling editing sessions, I finished a chapter of what may one day be my first book. I fully accept the possibility that the whole thing may eventually be chucked or rewritten beyond recognition, but it’s a start! If it survives, it will most likely fall somewhere in the first third of the grander story line. It was suggested that I dive in to the middle of my story and create a scene, any scene, without thought of what comes before or after, without concern of proper character introduction. Assume your reader already knows who your characters are, I was told. That they already understand a few basics of the plot.

It was exactly the approach I needed to get something down. I think I had been so intimidated by the idea of the first chapter and the need for chronological order that I pressured myself into a deadlock.

However, writing that one chapter was no piece of cake. Having worked in journalism for so many years my writing style is firmly grounded in objective, simple and straightforward language. I found I’d write a skeleton of a scene and need to fill in the colour, develop my characters and paint the picture I saw so clearly in my own mind. And I’d need to do it in a clever, subtle way, without making it obvious that these things were there. I can’t tell you how hard this was for me. Peeling back years of post-secondary education that had trained me to do the exact opposite was a humbling experience. I’ll never take the written word for granted again.

* * *

Try as I might to avoid it, next Thursday is Valentine’s Day and I wish I could just close my eyes and get it over with, like running full speed through a cold sprinkler, or bolting over hot coals. Don’t ask why those analogies were the ones to come to mind. Unfortunately for me, working at the paper has required me to deal with gag-me Valentine Day-themed editorial, contests and advertisements these past few days so my experience with the day of love will be slow and drawn out, to be sure.

If it’s not obvious already, I am single and will not be marking the occasion with anyone special. I’m trying this year to understand my hatred, and the hatred so many other singles have for V-Day. In past years when I was single the day would pass without incident. Who cares, I’d say. Let the lovers do their thing. Buy expensive roses and cheesy Hallmark cards, cinnamon hearts and teddy bears. I valued my freedom and independence more than any of those things.

I believe that certitude is beginning to waver and plain jealousy is to fault. Some people claim that they can’t stand public displays of affection. Others claim the commercialization of this and every other holiday is a travesty upon the day’s original signification. And some just can’t stand the colours red and pink.

I bet a good portion of the people who hide behind such excuses are really only jealous that they don’t have someone with whom they can revel in the day’s frivolities. I can say with a debased surety that I now fall into this category. On behalf of all lonely singles and in the spirit of equal rights, I may lobby my MP to give us a similar day in the sun.

* * *

I’ve known some people in my time who complain about friends who never call. But then when pressed, it’s discovered that the lack of communication goes both ways. If no one makes an effort, then no one can complain, because both are at fault and whatever so-called friendship they had should be accepted for what it really is – a polite acquaintance. It’s always been a pet peeve of mine to hear people complain about such situations when they themselves are just as much to blame.

Recently though, I’ve decided that in some circumstances if you reach out to these friends continually without reciprocation, you should be entitled to a trial blackout period during which your friend’s dedication is put to the test. Sit on your hands, see if they call. See if they write. All it requires is a bit of patience.

You may be surprised by the results.

Or lack thereof.

The little red button

The assignment: Listen to two people have a conversation and take note of their dialog, the way they speak. Cast them into a fictional scene and create dialog for them in their own voices.

Writer’s note: Two of my lucky coworkers became the subject of this short piece after I decided the only place I could get away with eavesdropping on someone’s conversation and taking notes on it without being caught, was in the office. To give some context, our internet and server connections are constantly going down and it’s happened a few times when all of our IT people have inconveniently been MIA. Once these two guys ventured into our equivalent of the mainframe computer room where it was joked they were going to “push the big red button”. I wasn’t there, but this is how I imagined it going down. Update: see instructor’s comments at end of post.

* * * * * *

THE LITTLE RED BUTTON

The two men were standing cramped in the cluttered computer closet staring down at the machine, eyebrows raised. Hard drives whirred softly around them as they silently surveyed the situation.

“Red wire or blue wire?” Max ribbed Gary with an elbow.

“Yeah, right.” Gary was looking at the humming box as if he expected it to explode. “So what did he say we had to do again? Tell me exactly.”

Max shifted his weight. “He said turn off the external PBS box, switch the cable input to port 2 — no, from 2 to 1 — and then hit reset.” He raised his hand and presented his palm. “See, I wrote it down.”

Gary looked at the smudged ink and said over the rim of his glasses, “Oh good, the future of Toronto’s community news rests literally in the sweaty palm of your hand.”

Max chuckled, “Hey man, I couldn’t find any paper! You guys call yourselves journalists, there wasn’t a notepad to be found in that newsroom!”

Gary grunted. “We just fill them up that fast.”

“Hey, look at that,” said Max, reaching a long arm up to the packed shelf over Gary’s head and pulling out a dusty comic book. “Jesus Christ, these I.T. guys have a ton of crap in here!”

“Would you put that back,” Gary said, backing away from the falling dust. “You’re getting shit all over me.”

“Sorry Gar.” he jammed it back in its place, sending more dust into the air. “Whoops.”

Max stepped back, arms at his side, avoiding the editor’s steely glare.

“Let’s just fucking do this.”

“Okay,” said Max, bending down and pointing to the far corner. “I think you’re gonna have to get back behind there, the PBS box is the one on the floor.”

“Try that again. You get back behind there. I’ll push the button.”

“Alright boss,” Max said and stepped carefully between wires, hands running along the edge of the overstuffed shelves for balance.

“Don’t step on anything important,” warned Gary.

“Or on any booby traps,” added Max with a grin. He knelt down to the grey box, searched for the power button and flipped it. “One down.”

Reaching over to another hard drive, Max pulled up some cables, inspecting them.

“Is that the cable wire he meant?” Gary asked, leaning over from his spot by the door.

“I think so.”

“You think so?”

“I mean, yeah it is.” Max pulled it. “I hope.”

“You hope!”

Max switched the cable ports. “Ok, moment of truth Gar. Press that little reset button and cross your fingers.”

Gary looked at the black box, and slowly extended his finger to the raised red button, but stopped just short. “So you’re sure that’s all he said to do? This is the last step?”

“Positive,” Max said firmly, but then added, “Just let go if you get electrocuted.”

Gary cursed, held his breath and pushed.

* * *

From the instructor: It was suggested that I remove some of the superfluous words like ‘dryly’ and ‘gruff’ and ‘joked’ and let the dialog between the characters do its work and express these ideas for me.

Lyle Lovett in a teacup

You may have spotted some of Annie Leibovitz’ stunning Disney photographs in the glossies this month, but this was one I hadn’t yet seen. Beyonce as Alice I get. Oliver Platt as the Mad Hatter, got it and love it — wouldn’t he be great?

But Lyle Lovett?

Random. If he’s supposed to be the March Hare, shouldn’t he have some bunny ears?